Bloodline
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: If anyone asks you why, tell them he is his father's son. (s3 Au)
1. Chapter 1

A/N* Just kind of shrugs and slides away*

He undid the buttons one at a time, slowly watching at his chest appeared though the slit where the sides of his shirt met. Tugged it off, and spent a moment examining himself in the mirror. What sort of a man are you? He asked himself, as he ran a slow hand down his exposed chest, over freckles and muscle, over curves and dips to the waistband of his pants. He stripped those off as well, looking down at his pale legs or several moments too, and hated every inch of exposed skin. He has the same body type as his father. Broad shoulders. Small waist, long fingers, prominent veins hands and arms. Not a lot of hair on his body, thick eyebrows, slightly rounded chin. Even the shape of his lips could probably be traced back to him. It was just who he was, it seemed. A whole other person trapped inside of his father's body.

He looked back up at his face in the mirror, and ran his fingers along his nose and across his cheek. He looks a lot older then twenty eight. He looks a lot more tired as well. Ran a hand though his hair, before he sighed quietly and turned around so he was leaning on the sink, facing the peeling wallpaper of the other side of the room. God he hates it here.

He wonders, if this was how his father felt, before he left. If he ran his hands over similar imperfections and saw what Charlie saw. Wonders if his father hated himself as much as he did. Just...Wondered. Considered, if maybe Davis's aren't meant to be happy. To his knowledge no one in his family ever was. Maybe he's just continuing the tradition. He had thought that maybe he was happy, maybe he deserved to be happy. Maybe his happiness came from Ballarat and the Doctor and Mattie and Mrs Beazley and Lawson. Maybe that was what his father had lacked. But now he doesn't know. He probably never will. After this week, he doesn't really deserve to live here, either. It annoys him that he had liked Blake. It annoyed, should say. No point in liking someone who doesn't like you back, he wants to think, but the unfamiliar fondness in his chest hasn't left. Hasn't vanished. Might never vanish. But he doesn't want to stay here and live in shadow of polite conversation any longer. He turns back to the mirror, and comes to a conclusion so quickly it startles him.

He flings the cabinet open, and takes a pair of nail scissors into his hands, and looks at his hair in the mirror, before taking a handful of it and cutting it off. He dropped it into the sink. He grabs his trademark waves I one hand, holding them away from his face and cutting the scissors though the wax, taking a moment to wonder if maybe he should have washed it out before he started this. The scissors are rendered useless by the end, but it's fine. Without his curly hair, he looks like his father. He'd always known he'd inherited his hair from his mother, but his face from his father. His father had much lighter hair then him. At least, that's what he can remember. Maybe that's just how boys are meant to be? Just like their fathers. Blake is. Lawson is. It hardly seems like such a leap that he would be as well. After all, why was it that he'd joined the police force? Why had he bothered listening to Munro and taken the letter off of Blake's desk? Taking a comb in his hand, he parted it on the other side of his head, and looked at himself for a long minute before grabbing Mattie's bottle of hair dye from the top shelf.

As far as he knew, Mattie used it to do highlights in her hair, but he was going to use it for something much bigger. Looking at himself in the mirror, he looked ridiculous. His haphazard hair cut plastered to his head with the dye. He sniffed slightly, and let it sit for almost half an hour, on top of the toilet seat with his knees pulled up to his chin. He wondered why things had to turn out the way that they did. Why he was such a coward, why he was so afraid of Munro, why he hadn't been able to punch Blake back, why he didn't tell him. Then, he turned on the shower, and stepped under the icy cold spray.

The red dye gives him the impression of bleeding. He watches it swirl down the drain between his bare feet. He wonders if this apathy he feels is what his father felt when he left them. Just went out one day in his police uniform. Never went to the station. Never came home either. Just left them. Just like that. He's probably going to be just like that, he thinks, just leave. What will Blake think of you then? He wonders, as the water running though his hair finally comes away clear.

He steps out, and takes a blue towel from the rack and runs it though his hair. It's lucky there's no one else here, he thinks, as he looks at himself in the mirror. Yeah. That was him. And yet it wasn't, as well. His hair was so much redder then he'd intended for it to be, but that was fine. His new short hair feels funny under his fingers, as he parts it on the opposite side of his head then he usually would. After a second, he goes though his discarded pants for a lighter, and drops it into the sink, watching as his hair went up in flames. The room quickly becomes smoky, but he lets it be, ignores the smell and puts his hands up to the fire, pretending it's a symbol for the bridges he's going to burn.

He leaves the hair in the sink, and slowly makes his way up the stairs now, towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He wonders if he should bring a bag, but decides against it in the end. Why give them more to trace? He selects his favorite slightly grey shirt, and a pair of kind of tan trousers, before topping it off with his plaid coat. He sits on his bed, and puts on his running shoes, after he pulls black socks over his pale feet. He ties the laces in the way he usually would. One loop. One loop. Pull the first though the second. Repeat. Pull it tight.

Running. If there was something he loved more then police work, it was running. Running laps. Running distances. Just...Running. Perhaps he got that from his father as well. Running away was, after all, what Richard Davis did best. Ran away from the police. Ran away from the Army. Ran away from his mother. Ran away from him. He did the same thing, hadn't he? Ran to Ballarat and right into Blake's waiting arms, rather then stay in Melbourne and deal with his problems like a grown up.

Standing now, he made his way over to the counter top, and put his watch on. It was the same watch every man on the force seemed to own. Good quality, but inexpensive. On the back of his, it read a simple 'C.D.' it wasn't a gift or a memento. Just a watch, like a chair is just a chair and a man is just a man. Except when that man is not just a man, he thinks, as his eyes fall on the picture stuck to his mirror. Himself and Blake, taken a crimescene looking at a body. He'd been developing pictures when he saw it. He knew, logically it was just a test picture, to ensure the camera was working, but somehow, seeing the pair of them crouching by a body on print was amusing to him. Enough so that he kept it. He takes that as well, tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat.

Several seconds pass before he takes his gloves as well. They were good quality too, soft on the inside and warm. He doesn't put them on quite yet, however. He still has one last thing to do. He looks around his bedroom one last time, at the dresser and bed. He doesn't take his comb, razor or small tub of wax. He leaves them, with the rest of his clothes, and his suitcase. He doesn't even look over his shoulder. He stops in the hallway, and takes his wallet from the hall table where he's tossed it earlier. He takes his cash, and his bank card. He left everything else behind.

He finally arrives in Blake's office. He slowly passed though to his office, before sitting at his desk. He watches from Blake's perspective. It's late in the afternoon, and the orange sun casts a golden glow over the room and its lone occupant. The whole world just seems different now. He unacps the black pen on the desk, and opens his notepad. He writes a simple message.

'If anyone asks you why, tell them, he is his fathers son.'

He signs it with his name, in his nicest handwriting. 'Charlie.' He rips it out of the notepad and sets it in the center of his desk, before reaching into the top drawer of his desk, removing one final keepsake, and then heading out.

Walking down the street, Blake's car passes him, but the man doesn't, or pretends not to see him. Then again, he didn't alter his appearance for nothing, he thinks, as he continues to walk towards the train station. As he walks, he wonders where his father ended up. Wonders if he should find him, just to show him how much damage he'd done to his only child that he claimed to love. He thinks about his small brothers and frazzled mother. He realized, rather belatedly, that they look more like a family without an awkward not father, but too old to really be a good bother either. It just feels like for everything he'd done with his life, there was nothing left for him to love.

It's not until he boards a train headed to Bendigo, that there's any kind of sign that someone has even noticed his absence from the house. Blake emerges from the crowd of well wishers, Lawson by his side.  
"Charlie?"

But it's too late. The train is already pulling away from the station and if they saw him, it's too late now. They continue to drive away from the station, and away from Ballarat. Away from Blake and his warm hands and Lawson's perpetual scowl. Away from Mattie's high pitches laugh and Mrs Beazley's cooking.

He gazes down at his final keepsake. A single silver flask, taken from the top drawer of Blake's desk. His fingers leave marks on the shiny surface as he runs them over the flask once worn close to Blake's body. He stares at it all the way to Bendigo, and he knows deep down in his soul that one thing will always be true.

Sons turn out like their fathers, regardless of how much they wish they don't


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello."  
"Hello." Blake replied offering the rather grim looking landlord a small smile, "I'd like to inquire about one of your tenants." The man narrows his eyes.

"Why?"  
"I'm...I'm a friend of the family, I just want to make sure their doing okay." He keeps his eyes narrowed. Blake figures he's probably lived his whole life on this side of Bendigo, knows all the tricks of the trade and probably rents his flats out to the occasional criminal. Still. As far as he knew, Charlie was no criminal.  
"Who are you asking over?"  
"Kaleb Davids."  
"What's he done?" The man asked, looking probably as surprised as Blake found out when he found out where Charlie had been living for the last three years.

"I told you. I just want to make sure he's alright."  
"He seems fine." The man replied, "He's not very friendly, always pays the rent a couple of days early, been here for about a year. Works at a hardware store I think, he's raising his kid by himself. Don't see her much but she looks happy."  
"Yeah that sounds like him." Blake said, with a slightly relieved smile.

"He's an odd ball. But he pays the rent on time and doesn't complain."

"That's him all over." Blake agrees.

There's nothing more to be gained from this conversation so he leaves it.

…

The flat is certainly more run down then he expected. But then again, raising a child on a hardware store clerk salary probably isn't easy, he thinks, as he knocks four times on the door. He takes a moment to examine the run down walls and building. He's about to knock again when he hears

"Coming!" From the hallways behind the door. He strains his ears and he can hear Charlie fussing behind the door, before he opens it.

He looks different. His hair had obviously been redyed since he left the Blake house three years ago, but it was very much grown out, giving his hair a funny ombre sort of look. He had creases by his eyes and looked tired. He stared at Blake for a moment, before closing the door in his face. Blake put his hands on the handle and tried it a couple of times. Charlie was obviously putting his weight on the door from the other side, preventing him from opening it.

"Go away, Doc."  
"Charlie, please just talk to me."

"No."  
"I'm not here to convince you to come back. No one even knows I'm here. I just want to see how you're doing." There's a scilence from inside the flat, which is followed by footsteps fading. He sighs, and considers knocking on the door again. He'd really thought Charlie would want to speak with him, but looking back thinking it through, Charlie left them, not the other way around.

Then, to his great shock, the door opens, and Charlie is standing there again, in the shirt and pants he'd been wearing when he left (Although they were significantly more worn now then they had been)

"I put the kettle on." He said, after a moment. "We don't have any sugar but if you still take it with milk…." Blake looks at him for a moment, but Charlie moves to the side, allowing him access to the house.

After he stepped inside, Blake was slightly taken aback. The place was clean, but it was as run down as the front. The wallpaper was feeling, the rug in the livingroom was peeling up at the corners, the counters were chipped and Charlie's bed appeared to be in his living room. The whole place just seemed...Small. "Thank you." He said, taking the chipped tea cup from Charlie's hands. "I'm glad you found somewhere to live."  
"Me too." He replied, shortly.

"What have you been up too?"  
"Not much. I work in a hardware store. I rent this tiny little flat, I try and be a good dad."

"You have a kid?"  
"I saw you, the other day, talking to my landlord."

"I don't want you to think that I'm spying.."  
"It's fine. I should have known you could never let me be." He sighed, and took a sip from his own cup.

"We're worried, that's all. It's not everyday when your friend just up and leaves."  
"Yeah well, first time for everything, Doc."

"How are you, really? You look tired."  
"I am tired." he replied, softly. "But I'm doing okay."

"And the little one?"  
"Her name is Pontaine. After her mother's mother."  
"Ah."  
"She's a baby. All babies are sort of the same. She's learning to walk, learning to talk. She likes to tell me 'Up, up.'"

"That's sweet."  
"I suppose." He replied diplomatically.

"And her mother?"  
"She...She's not really involved."  
"Meaning?"  
"She left me."  
"Oh." Charlie nods, and takes a sip of tea.  
"It was just one night." He said, softly. "She didn't love me, I didn't love her. But we got married because we both loved the baby." He pauses, again, and takes a gulp of tea. "She just didn't love her enough to stick around."

"I take it you did."  
"I don't know what you think of me now, but I love my daughter. I might have left you but I'd never leave her." Blake put his hands up in a surrender position.

"Nothing has changed in my opinions of you." Blake promised. "I just wish you'd talked to me."  
"I tried." Charlie bit back, like something of a wounded cat. "But you didn't listen. You punched me in the face and I tried to talk to you, but it was like talking to a brick wall."  
"So you ran away."  
"It's genetic." He replied, "Running away."  
"No, it's not. You made a choice to be like him. No one forced you to." Blake said, trying to keep his voice under control as Charlie pulled his lips together in a tight line. He'd spend the last three years running from the unavoidable truth. And now he couldn't run any more.  
"Maybe." He replied, "Do you think sons are destined to be like their fathers?" Blake took a long sip of tea and sat back in his seat.  
"I don't believe in destiny, Charlie. " He replied, after a moment . "I believe in choice."  
"I made my choice." He replied, bitterly. "And my choice was to leave." he said, after several long moments of consideration.  
"I know you did." Blake said, after a moment. "I just wish I could convince you to come home."  
"You said you wouldn't try."  
"Would it work?" Blake asked, after a moment, before shaking his head. "Do I get to meet Pontaine?" Charlie bit his lip thoughtfully, before nodding, and standing. Blake hadn't expected that, but was excited, none the less.

Charlie emerged from what was the presumable bedroom three minutes later holding a child close to his chest. Appearing to be about one year old, Pontaine Davis (Or Davids) was small and pale, with dark red hair carefully pinned back from her face with a pink bow shaped headband. He sat across from Blake, keeping her close to his chest before sitting her in his lap and allowing her to grab onto his fingers.

"She looks like you." He said, after a moment. Charlie looked down at her and offered him a tiny smile.  
"She has her mother's hair." He replied.

"You like red heads." Blake laughed. Charlie nodded.

"You could say that." He replied, allowing the child to play with his fingers happily. "You wouldn't believe she was asleep a few minutes ago." He murmured. Blake nodded quietly, and spent a moment watching Charlie look down at his child with warm eyes.

"No, you wouldn't." He said, after a moment. "She's beautiful."  
"Yeah." He replied, bending over to kiss her hair gently. "Would you...Like to hold her?" Blake feels his face light up, and he knows Charlie can probably see it.

"I'd love too." He smiled. Charlie carefully stood and moved Pontaine into his lap. Blake, following Charlie's example, allowed her to play with his fingers.  
"She likes meeting new people." He said, after a moment. "Shame she ended up with such a recluse for a father."

"It looks to me like you're doing the best you can." He said, smiling as Pointaine decided to wave his hands around as furiously as a one year old is able.

"I guess." He replied, after a moment. "I like being a dad. Makes me wonder why mine chose not too."

"I like being a father as well." Blake assured him. "Most fathers like being fathers." Charlie nodded, and took a sip of his tea.  
"I wasn't sure what I was going to do, when Jane left." He admitted. "I wrote you a letter, asking what to do, but I never posted it. I wrote you a letter when we got married as well, asking the same question, but then I wondered….How could you possibly know what to do?" He murmured.

"Well I know what I would like you too do."  
"What's that?" He asked, softly, even though he also probably knows what's coming.  
"I want you to come home." He said, softly. "I know you're doing the best you can but I think it would be better for both of you if you came back to Ballarat." He scoffs softly.

"I can't go back there." He murmured. "I can't face explaining myself to all those people. Not to mention it's going to look like I'm sponging off of you." He mumbled. "People will talk."  
"People always talk. I've never known you too care before."  
"I don't care what they have to say about me." He replied, "You know that." he grumbled, in what was probably the most Charlie Davis thing he'd done since Blake had first set foot in the building. "I care about what people are going to say in regards to my daughter." He whispered. "Doc, you have to understand, she's everything I have."

"I do understand." Blake promised. "And I want whats best for you. Both of you. Look around, Charlie. Do you really think this is the best place for a little one to be living?" He asked, kindly. "You said she was learning to walk. Do you think this place will be safe when she is?" Charlie looked down at his worn down shoes with a look that Blake thinks is too awfully like shame. He watches Charlie's hand raise to his lips and wipe at them in a largely self comforting way.

"You're right." He admits. "You're always right." he murmurs, before sniffing though his nose. "I do want what's best for her." He said, softly. "That's all I want." He said, quietly. "What's best for her." He admits. Blake stands, and presses the happily oblivious Pontaine back into his arms. He looks down at her, as she seems to pick up on his sadness, and put one tiny hand on his face. He tried to smile but it just came out looking sad.  
"If I leave, I won't have a job, I hardly have any money now." He said, softly.

"You know me, Charlie." Blake replied.  
"Yeah...I do." He said, after a moment. "I can't go back." He said, suddenly rather short and grim. He stood, and walked into the bedroom, taking Pontaine with him. "I'd like you to leave now." He said, when he came back out.

"What?" He asked, suddenly, "Have I said something wrong?"  
"I do know you, Lucien Blake. You punched me in the face." He said. "You play this white knight role and then you snap and she's not going to be around for that."  
"Charlie that was a one time." Blake said, "And I thought my daughter was in danger, tell me , wouldn't you do the same?"

"No. I can safely assure that I would not punch someone who had his hands tied in the situation!" He said, "Go now. Go home, accept that I don't want, or need, to be saved."  
"Is that what this is all about?" Blake asked, "I said I was sorry." He told Charlie, giving him a serious expression.

"I know, and I believe you." He said, after a moment. "But I keep thinking, about how things were. I can't live like that."  
"How things were?"  
"Oh come on." Charlie exclaimed, "You must have felt it, that...That shadow of politeness over us."

"I know." Blake said, after a moment. "But I...I want to fix it."  
"Fix it?"  
"Between us. I want to be your friend." Charlie starred at him for several moments, before lowering himself back into his chair and pressing his face into his hands. "Charlie?"

"I always thought if you came, then I'd be able to just...Tell you to leave." He whispered. "I thought I could hate you." He said, softly. "But then you came, and all I can think now, is how much I miss living in Ballarat, how much I hate Bendigo, hate this apartment, my job, my wife...I hate pretty much everything except Pontaine." He murmured, "Including myself." He said, softly. After a moment, Blake wrapped him into a hug, holding him close. A tiny sob escapes, but that's all he lets out.

Charlie let Blake hold him tightly for a minute, before a sudden crying forces him into action. He hurries past Blake into the bedroom, and comes out holding Pontaine to his chest, trying to stop her crying gently. She stops crying when Charlie sits down again and starts to calm down himself.  
"Charlie." Blake said, gently. "I know that you like to be independent, I know you love your daughter. But don't you think it would be better if you came home?" Charlie buried his face in the top of Pontaine's head, and Blake, for the first time, notices how new and clean her clothes are compared to Charlie, who hadn't even bothered dying his hair.  
"I wouldn't even know where to start."  
"Start by agreeing to let me help you, and we can work everything else out later." On his chest, Pointaine made funny little noise and Charlie looked down to her and then looked back to Blake.

"Alright, yeah, we'll go with you."  
"Thanks you." Blake said, after a moment.

"Why are you thanking me?"  
"For giving me another go."

"Yeah well you came all the way out here to find me." He said, softly. "You deserve that much." Blake's not sure he does but he's glad Charlie thinks so.

"How about you give Pontaine to me, and go pack a bag. We can leave tonight, and come back for your things later."  
"Why now?"  
"Well I'd like to be home in time for tea, speaking of which I should let Jean know we're setting extra places."  
"After a moment, Charlie shifts Pontaine into his arms. She seemed reluctant at first, but much like her father, was quickly drawn in by Blake's soothing nature, and unlike her father, became fascinated by his waistcoat buttons. He watches Charlie bustle around and pack two bags. A smaller one for himself, and a larger one for Pontaine.

"Are you ready?" Blake asked, as he passed Pontaine back to Charlie to have a coat put around her tiny shoulders.

"Not really." He said, after a minute, but he puts that aside, and they leave anyway.

"I forgot to tell you." Charlie said, as he carefully strapped the baby capsule into the car.

"Tell me what?"  
"Her middle name is Lucien." Blake claps him on the back when he climbs around into the front seat, and he comes to the conclusion that his bloodline might have messed up his life, but he'll make sure it doesn't ruin Pontaine's.

And if that means accepting Blake's help, then so be it.


End file.
